Warriors in Paradise (25 page)

Coombs didn’t represent my country. He was a parasite infecting the body of America. He needed to be exterminated, along with the others who thought and acted like him.

I turned around and said, “Mr. Coombs, you’re a fucking worthless piece of shit. There were people like you in the Middle Ages, during Nazi Germany, with the Japanese, or white supremacists, the Muslim extremists. You are not any different from any fucking gangster. You are a weakling threatened by change, progress, and people of different races and cultures. You are a coward hiding behind the patriotism of true Americans.

“The power of the United States has been and continues to be our deep-seated belief that we can cope with change and that we can use, promote, and accept change. Yes, this is why we are different from any previous empire. We ride change on the crest of the wave. Change for any American is a resource, not a drag. It is something we promote, not something that holds us back. Change is in our nature. We
are
change!”

I was already mad. I could not believe the arrogance of the man. I wanted to hurt him.

He read something in my eyes and the tone of my voice, and I could see a flash of fear in his eyes. He stopped walking and turned around, signaling for his bodyguards to approach. They both came up fast upon me and took hold of my arms. I did not struggle.

Coombs told his guards, “Find out what he knows, where his worthless Mexican piece-of-shit friend is, whom they have spoken to, and then dispose of him.”

As I was being led on the path toward the vehicle, Jack charged at one of the guards while the other let go of me, drew his firearm, and shot Jack point-blank. I heard a tiny pfffft. My uncle stepped out of the brush. I heard another pfffft, and a growing red dot appeared between the shooter’s eyes. He then silently shot the other bodyguard as he was reaching for his side arm. I hit Coombs with a vicious right hook to the chin, knocking him out.

We had three dead bodies and an unconscious man.

I texted Caleb to take out the driver and agent waiting in Coombs’s vehicle and to come and help us. We could not leave the bodies; we needed to take them with us.

My uncle Jonathan was calmly looking around with an unconcerned look on his face. Every second seemed an eternity. A little breeze brought the salty smells of the Potomac. I was concerned somebody might come by and see the carnage. A minute led to two… Caleb and Santi did not appear. I took out my cell phone to text Caleb again, but I put it away. Hell, I was behaving like a rookie the first time I saw action in Afghanistan.

After another five minutes, I saw Caleb and Santi cantering toward us. I breathed hard and long. I think I had been holding my breath the whole time. As they got nearer, I said, “We have three dead, including Jack, and an unconscious Coombs. We need to take them with us. We will each take one body.”

I did not ask what happened to the driver and agent. I would soon find out.

I hauled Coombs over my shoulder. Jonathan picked Jack up, and Caleb and Santi each took one of the agents.

We took the path and crossed the footbridge to the parking lot. We placed the bodies in the rear of Coombs’s large SUV. I saw the driver and third agent already there, taped and restrained. We did the same to Coombs and unceremoniously pushed him into the vehicle.

My uncle said, “We’ll see you at the same place we couldn’t get into yesterday.” He was being cautious. He drove away with Caleb and Santi.

Everything had happened in a matter of minutes. I looked around; nobody seemed to have noticed. However, I suspected that perhaps some of the park surveillance cameras might have caught us on video. Nothing we could do about that.

I drove to Coombs’s house. As I drove into the driveway, one of the garage doors opened. As soon as I parked, the door closed.

Caleb was waiting for me. He said, “We have placed the deadwood down in the basement. We are waiting for you in the kitchen.”

Talking to the Wolf

“How did you get the code to disarm the security system?” I asked my uncle.

“One of the bodyguards was extremely helpful and forthcoming,” responded Santi.

“How do we interrogate Alexander Coombs? Do we follow the same procedure as with Nancy Smith?” I asked.

“More or less the same, with a few minor variations. First, we find the right room, one as far away as possible from the street, with no windows if possible. Second, we find the right chair—sturdy, well built, and heavy. Third, we place a desk or table on which I can put my paraphernalia and desk lamp.”

“And what are the minor variations?” asked Santi.

My uncle responded, “We don’t undress him, and we don’t stick the psychotropic suppository up his ass, at least not at the beginning.

“There are several principles for a successful interrogation. One principle is discovering what the subject hates or loves the most and showing him—or making him believe—that you control the object of his passion, manipulating him into telling you what you need to know. Another principle is finding the personality type of your subject so you can interrogate him successfully.”

Looking at me, he added, “But you know all of this, since you applied these principles during Toro’s interrogation.

“As we all know, Alexander Coombs is extremely arrogant. By everything I have heard from you and Jack, I believe he suffers from narcissistic personality disorder, NPD. People with this disorder have excessive feelings of self-importance, react with anger to any criticism, consider others inferior, take advantage of people, disregard the feelings of others, and are obsessed with fantasies of achieving success and power.

“First, we try to get to him using his arrogance and his feelings of self-importance. That might be the key to making him talk. He is smug, with a holier-than-thou attitude. He despises those who do not share his views. He has a strong necessity to look better than others.

“When you make an extremely arrogant person, somebody with NPD, look bad, even if it is in the slightest possible manner, he will react angrily at you, especially if you belittle his opinions, intelligence, and self-image.

“Alexander Coombs thinks he is smarter and knows better than most. He treats people below him with contempt. He is an overeducated career bureaucrat with a deep-seated belief that he knows what is best for this nation and its people. He does not think that what he is doing is offensive, criminal, or morally wrong. He is convinced that the end justifies the means.

“Those traits are what makes him so dangerous, and they are also the key to his undoing.

“Interrogation is not only about torturing a subject to tell you what they think you want to know. It is about finding the key to having him tell you not only what you want to know, but also the things that you should know, the things you didn’t know you needed to know until you hear them. That is the ‘unknown unknowns as well as the known unknowns,’ as one of our former secretaries of defense was fond of saying.

“So let us do that. Let us find that room and what we need, and we will meet back here in five minutes,” said my uncle.

***

I went upstairs while Santi and Caleb checked the basement. My uncle surveyed the ground floor. Five minutes later, we were back in the kitchen. Caleb said, “We found a half basement that will do fine for our purposes. We have already found a workbench that will serve as a table, a sturdy chair, Alexander’s comfortable desk chair for Jonathan, a table lamp, and three recording cell phones. We have everything we need.”

We carried Alexander Coombs down to the half basement. We had to bend down to walk in. There was a single light bulb in the ceiling. Caleb and I sat Coombs down on the chair. We pulled his restrained wrists behind the back of the chair, cut the ankle restraints, and taped his ankles to the chair’s front legs. Santi, Caleb, and I stood behind Coombs. My uncle placed his briefcase on the workbench and sat behind it, facing Coombs. He turned on the desk lamp and directed the light to his face.

We were ready to start the interrogation.

***

My uncle nodded to me. I stepped forward, pulled the pillowcase off Combs’s head, and removed the tape covering his mouth.

Coombs blinked a few times, cleared his throat, and said, “If you leave right now, I will let bygones be bygones. My advice to you boys is to forget about those girls, forget that you ever met me, and go back to whatever life you had before. You do not want to continue this. You don’t know what you’re dealing with. This is a very good offer, and I strongly recommend that you to take it.”

My uncle nodded to me, and I stepped forward and slapped Coombs on the right side of his face. The slap made a loud whack. I walked over to the left of my uncle so he could see me.

My uncle said, “Mr. Coombs, you will talk only when I ask you a question.

“There are only two rules. The first one is you talk only when I invite you to talk. And the second is, you answer the questions truthfully. If you follow these simple rules,” he said while opening his briefcase, “I’ll not have to resort to the same chemicals I had to use on your esteemed associate from the CIA in Mexico, Ms. Nancy Smith, who, unfortunately, could not tolerate them and died due to cardiac arrest.

“So, tell me, why does a man of the world, an educated government official such as you, get involved in drug smuggling and the kidnapping of teenage girls?”

Coombs responded, “I don’t know who you are, but you do seem to be an experienced interrogator, probably with professional intelligence training. You should know then that you are wasting your time, because I will not answer any incriminating questions. You have just sequestered a Drug Enforcement Administration director. All of you are in very serious trouble.”

My uncle nodded, and Santi stepped forwarded and slapped Coombs on the left side of his face.

“Mr. Coombs, Alexander…May I call you Alexander? Yes, I think I will call you Alexander. You don’t deserve to be called Mr. Coombs, because you are a nobody. You are a stupid man with below-average intelligence. You should look at yourself in the mirror. You look frightened and idiotic, blinking and drooling like a retard. How can I talk to such a ridiculous creature, a nobody like you? You are a government lifer with no further prospects of advancement. That is why you resorted to drug trafficking and kidnapping: to compensate for your inability to advance in your career. You are nothing more than a fucking drug dealer and a pimp with pathetic delusions of grandeur. You don’t deserve my respect!”

I could see Coombs getting agitated, upset, and angry. His condescending smile gave way to an irate smirk. He was looking at my uncle with fury.

He shouted, “What do you know about what this country needs? Do you have any idea the challenges that we face as a nation? Do you think we are going to permit foreigners to control the greatest nation in the world? Do you have any idea the type of decisions we have had to make to protect the United States? Do you have any idea who the real rulers of our country are?

“Of course not. You’re all just little cogs in the biggest wheel history has ever created. You’re all just insignificant moving parts whose absence would go unnoticed. Your disappearance would be as irrelevant as a bug being crushed under my shoe.”

My uncle responded, “Really? On the topic of insignificance, I tend to agree with Aesop when he said: ‘Our insignificance is often the cause of our safety.’ But pray tell, do enlighten us, oh Great One, about all the power that you hold as the grand vizier of Washington, the great power whisperer!”

I could read in Coombs’s face the utter disbelief at being ridiculed by my uncle, and I saw a mixture of anger and vanity prevailing over his reluctance to answer our questions. Now he couldn’t stop himself from spilling it all out to us.

He started talking without any prompting from us.

“My family has been here since the Mayflower. We helped create this country from scratch. We built it for hardworking and honest families, not for foreign scum like you—Italians, Irish, Blacks, Mexicans, Jews, and Catholics. We built it for God-fearing white Protestants. The rest of you are just passing through. You are temporary guests with green cards.

“There are many American patriots, like me, who are making the hard choices America needs. We learned a very important lesson during Prohibition. We realized that the demand for alcoholic beverages was going to continue, no matter what the authorities did. The police simply could not cope with the ramifications of the problem. The demand for alcohol created its own supply—supply that was provided by Italian and Irish mobsters: Al Capone, Mad Dog Coll, and others.

“We are a nation of highly individualistic people. We do not like to be told what to do. We like our freedoms even though sometimes these freedoms may come back and bite us in the ass. That individualism is the basis of our economic, financial, cultural, and military might. American individualism is the source of our initiative, creativity, innovation, and technological change—the creation of new companies, competition, and productivity.

“Unfortunately, what makes us strong can also make us weak as a nation. We respect and appreciate the individualism that makes America great, but we also have to rein in those individual choices that might threaten our civil liberties and economic prowess. Americans will continue to demand illegal drugs no matter what we do through drug prevention programs in schools, crime fighting by the police, and the prosecution of drug traffickers by local and federal authorities. Fighting the war on drugs is comparable to kicking water up the hill. You don’t have a chance in hell of winning the battle.